Gem Collector
by TNWanderer
Summary: Fixation of the mind and denial of the obsession as seen from Sawada Tsunayoshi's eyes. TYL 2759, BL, Warnings inside.


**AN: **This is weird, twisted and I can only explain it with my current sickness. When I am like this, I tend to write rubbish -not that my other pieces are any good. But for my first fic for 5927-2759, I would have never expected myself to come up with something this crazy and over the top.

This is supposedly set in a future where Tsuna grows up to be a little... mentally unstable, I'd say. For what reason he becomes like this, I don't know but, let's say that I am bored with sweet/fluffy/cute/lovey-dovey fics I see around for this couple. Though I love those, experimentation doesn't hurt, right?

**Warning:** Some disturbing imagery and what-the-fuckery, implied sex.

Inspired by a prompt; _"I'll feed you fruit that don't exist."_

_-_oo-

**Gem Collector**

"_These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of." ~George Eliot_

He realizes that before this, he never knew that green had this many shades and this many mysteries contained in its simple spectrum of light and phase. Here in this blank void where the two of them seem to suspend tangled among unspoken words that stretched as the length and breadth of his mind's twisted corners permitted, those eyes and the wild greenness of them represent the only color and are the only indicator that they are alive and face to face.

Where his body begins and where the other's ends, he doesn't know, can't distinguish. It is dark to the point of invoking a primal fear on a more conscious level of his mind which echoes like agoraphobia and claustrophobia at the same time. The void surrounding them sometimes slips from his perception's grasp like some quicksilver that has pale hues of green about it. And sometimes the emptiness is stuffed with their bodies to the point of making him choke and gag, the rising bile at the back of his throat tasting acrid poison green.

And all he could see is those eyes. Those eyes... There is this itchy feeling burning on his finger tips. And those eyes... He wants to touch them and ignite his own nerve endings with the fire swimming within them. He is mesmerized, completely taken in, sucked out of his will and purpose other than the sheer desire of finding out, of discovering. Like a cat waits for its master's death to gouge those marvelous orbs out to see for itself what is so fascinating about them...

Then he wakes up, heart thudding in a delirious race, his hands aflame, his reflection on the mirror before his bed so foreign and so calm that he feels trapped and disoriented and gasping like a fish as if he can breathe his soul and identity back in with each hurting mouthful of air.

Come morning, he destroys the bedsheets that are slightly charred and discolored under where he fisted them in desperation to keep them away from those green eyes of his dreams.

Mustering the courage to meet them under the sunlight has always taken its toll on him after this particular dream. But those eyes smile, some kind of secret sorrow lacing their depths, those eyelashes pale like embroidery and he wonders what kind of spider it would take to web them and how would they burn under his touch and cool down into icicles over his tongue. He wants them. He yearns them only to look at him, only to smile down at him with that beautiful sadness about them that makes his insides tremble, his spine quiver and _ah,_ he wants to see them in tears. Tears that remain unshed but reserved only for him in a vault that the other man struggles to lock up, chain down and contain in that somewhere that is enshrined only for him.

He wonders if those tears would be of emeralds, of aquamarines, of turquoises and jades and beryls. And he contemplates how unearthly beautiful they might look set on silver rings and pressed under his lips.

-o-

"This is not how I imagined it to turn out."

He watches as that scar on that chin moves as the man talks, his mind beyond caring the riddle that lies underneath those whiskey laced words.

"He suffers, you know." The other says, a hesitant, subdued and brittle smile distorts the clean line of that old wound into something ugly. So ugly that he thinks, the taller man should never attempt to commit murders like this again with that broken smile of his. His friend is no longer young enough to able to sooth him with it and he is now old enough to see when it comes across more miserable than it is ever intended to look.

"I know." He says. "But I can't do anything about it." _I have rejected him before, I have already hurt him enough..._ He lies and it tastes like that thing that the one in his dreams puts on his tongue; vile, succulent, hard and sweet. He wants to spit it out, but like every lie, it is addicting and the hunger is insatiable when he begins feeding on and feeding the others with it.

"I can't give him what he needs." _I can't shamelessly ask him to give me what I need._ So he lies more and drinks more, yearning for that taste again, yearning to see those eyes. _I am frightened... I am so..._

-o-

The search of that _unattained_ woman's warmth through and over the wet folds and slick depths of other women's skin is already something of the past for him. He no longer searches, he simply tries to remember what kind of a feeling it was that he has wasted this much time in seeking for it. He despairs, full of regret. He now knows that the answer to it pales before the horrification of imagining the hard edges of a male's body under him, while he fools himself by thinking that this is for the best for them, this is better than what he might do to the other, what he might cause the other to lose. Yet he is unable to help it as his mind conjures up the images of that wondrous body arching off of the bed, that mouth parted in a silent scream, those hands holding onto him, falling, falling... And he comes; empty, meaningless, and unsated, the eyes of a cat is regarding him with silent disdain in a far corner of his mind.

Then it settles, its amber orbs flashing closed and it sleeps.

He never brings his trysts home, and he makes sure to not fall asleep under random expensive hotel roofs, tangled with random female bodies whose blonde hair gleam silver in the moonlight or whose blue eyes reflect neon green with the fancy colored bedroom illumination.

The old baby gives him a once over and his beady eyes scream of disapproval, but that stupid fedora of his quickly hides them under a shadow and he murmurs, "Burn that shirt of yours with the bed sheets in the morning."

And he catches his dim reflection on the bathroom mirror, his eyes landing on the stains of lipstick obscenely smudged over his dress shirt's collar. He can't decide what to feel guilty of getting caught about, the sheets or the shirt? _Cliché_, he thinks and he reaches for his bed, his subconscious starts prowling.

He finds himself before the face he adores, half naked, -maybe fully naked, he doesn't know. The body before him moves, his vision becomes filled with the monochrome reality of the black void around them and the expanse of that white skin, paper thin, almost edible. His canines hurt.

He reaches, it seems like his hands form out of the dark mist around them the moment he thinks of using his limbs, he touches. _Oh_, he touches... Alabaster skin yields under his fingers, the one before him surrenders. He _always_ surrenders. With that sad, sad, beautiful look in those eyes, he smiles. Those supple lips word something out, but he can't pick it up through the sound of blood roaring in his ears. He growls at the back of his throat, impatient, and opens his mouth like a scavenger bird's chick would do, demanding to be fed.

And the morsel comes.

Hot, succulent, vile, hard, chewy and disgusting and sweet...

His teeth crush it, grind it and his tongue savors it, his eyes never leaving the jade orbs that watch him with adoration, with awe, with tenderness and with something that is sickening but he craves and _craves_ for it and he swallows. He opens up again, teeth dyed red now, magenta dribbling down his chin, another morsel fills the gaping hunger between his sneering lips. And it tastes like ash, like charcoal, and filled with such meaty emotion that his stomach churns at the rawness of it on his palate but he gapes that voracious mouth of his again and again, never considering to look at what it is that he is feeding upon, why the fingers that he laps up over his morsels tremble.

And when nothing is left to offer, the one before him leans in and whispers something but he can't hear it over the sound of his own contented purring. The owner of the unheard words regards him with growing hopelessness yet that smile of his never ceases, so he catches the lone tear drop that tumbles down that lean cheek with a burning palm. He smiles down at the shiny gem as the other cries, looking all defeated and empty and ephemeral, oh so beautifully wrecked that...

The moment he puts that jade drop on his tongue, something twists in his gut and he wakes up. His sheets are burnt again here and there and he trembles in the aftermath of the strongest orgasm he has ever had. He doesn't dare to look at the mirror before his bed.

He is frightened out of his wits. The sun refuses to shine on his curled up body and the rest of the day it rains.

-o-

When the ash, dust, debris and smoke settle, his flames die down and his eyes now impossibly wet-brown, he hoists up the tired and wounded body of the one in his dreams, crumbling, crushing, sizzling under the tremendous guilt. He is shaking more than the bleeding one that leans on him, a broken record of apologies tumble down from those lips to quell his distress. And he is afraid to touch any longer but also scared of letting go, so he stays silent and lets his eyes speak of the terror that his mind is going through.

They stumble away, the vicious slap of the wind against their bloodied cheeks. For a moment there, he thinks, he has heard the final curses of the dead whispering behind them over the roaring of the thunder above their heads. He knows that he is imagining things.

Later that, he doesn't enter the room where the other recuperates, he doesn't trust himself enough. Because it is all his fault, because he has made a mistake. He has hurt him for real this time and it feels awful and it feels so cruel, it feels like his soul is wrung off of life and for a while his dreams are even bleaker when the greens are all gone.

So he sits there and hugs the silver head on his chest and purrs and mumbles, his wish rumbling softly at the back of his throat. He says, "Wake up soon and feed me, beloved. Wake up soon and let me..." And he pets that hair and caresses that fair skin languidly, leering despite the overwhelming sorrow within him.

-o-

"Since when have you been able to use that power without the pills?" The old baby asks, eyes accusing, stance taut.

"Since those dreams." He answers, knowing that he can't lie to him. "But I was never able to do it when I was awake before."

"It's because of him." The baby says, ever wise and all knowing. "When you saw him hurt, you..." He stops from further elaborating and instead, observes the tormented, sleep deprived eyes and the ash gray face of the young man before him.

"This is eating you up, just accept it before you burn yourself to death in your sleep."

And his student abruptly retches into the waste bin beside his office desk, afraid, so much like the child he once has been.

-o-

"Show me some emeralds, some aquamarines." He demands in the mids of parrying, his eyes glowing like the setting sun, the passive passion in them is scorching.

His illusionist smiles, breaks his fighting stance and hits the floor of the training room with his trident without even questioning his wish.

The instant that he is surrounded with hexagonal blocks of crystals protruding from the floor, he touches one and is tempted to lick it. His eyes narrow down at his reflection over its surface and he snorts.

"Not as brilliant as those eyes." He says. His illusionist smirks knowingly as he watches how he destroys the gems with his fists.

-o-

He has lost the count of the nights that he lurks before the door of the one in his dreams, his finger tips caressing the surface of the dark oak door religiously just as he would caress that pale spine, perfect like a bow under his garbled affections.

He never considers the probability of the other being awake on the other side of the door, his back leaning on it and trembling in equal yearning as the fingers glide across that cold and cruel piece of wood. Closed but so easy to swing open...

Something stretches and yawns hugely within him, now awake, all teeth and claws and amber eyes. So he escapes, terrified and feeling foreign under his own skin.

-o-

Avoiding the other doesn't solve anything. He is distracted, clumsy, irritated. But his eyes are wide, painfully sharp, ready to snap and it is aggravating to watch. Or so his Cloud says.

"Though you look like a lion right now, this is the face of a lion in a cage." The steel eyed man states. "Go see him and stop making me confuse which one of you is supposed to be the puppy on the leash."

He looks up at the man and that trademark timid smile of his doesn't appear on his face this time. "I need to spar." He declares and leaves the work behind, leading the way to the training rooms. The steel eyed man following him wonders, if the other needs to vent up his stress by hoping to beat him or if he wants to be beaten until he can fall to a dreamless sleep tonight.

Either option is fine with him.

-o-

One day he asks to his Rain. "What's in a heart?"

The taller man slashes another enemy down immobile but not dead, sparing him from accumulating the number of deaths on his own personal visa to hell. He blinks and wipes at the blood sprayed over his face, his eyes dull, his shoulders sagging under impossible to carry burdens, the picture of Atlas.

"We, who eat people's hearts out, should know it the best, don't we?" His friend answers the question with a question, now not even trying to conjure up that brittle smile to cover the truth.

"It is the taste." He continues, watching the other's orange flames burn and freeze the terrible reality into some macabre beauty. "And of all the people among us, I think you know it the best." He accuses like only a friend can do.

Sighing into the fume and smoke, he realizes that he has nothing to counter that claim with. And he asks himself what can be more horrifying than that.

-o-

He kisses, he laps at the fingers that feed him. It is dark again and their limbs seem to form out of thin air as they tangle and wander and caress and never stop.

The salvation in those eyes is only bestowed upon him in their solitary bubble of desire and lust. And he cherishes it, celebrates it, basks in it by opening his mouth further.

It is juicy, chewy, delicious, hard like a candy made of sin with a center filling of emotions left unconfessed, yet nurtured with hope and undying devotion. He leans in and licks away the tears that are falling, drops of jade, beryl and aquamarine rolling on his tongue.

"More," He purrs, something coiling in his stomach. "More, beloved, feed me more." He demands. He guides the fingers to his mouth, knowing that he is burning the other with his hold. But the one before him smiles, a thousand broken crystal pieces reserved only for him in his eyes.

He chews, licks, swallows and brings that warm body closer to his and he growls. The other doesn't resist and fits another morsel between his canines. Satisfied yet yearning for more, he grabs at the other's hips and drags him over his lap and attaches his mouth over the pale skin that is presented before him.

He bites and nips, his fingers digging in. There is this strange urge for something in him. Primal and frightening. He can't wrap his mind around it, so he lets the other give him another morsel and he chuckles. His lips travel down, he burrows in pleasure but his cheek meets with hollowness.

He stops, and even before opening his eyes dread fills him, hard and succulent and vile and burnt.

There is a gape on that beloved chest where that beloved heart is supposed to be and the dark red cavity gazes back at him with gouged eyes, old, empty and lifeless.

He looks up and the eyes smile down at him. Another morsel is pressed against his half open lips. He recoils and looks down into the hands and sees a mess of pulverized flesh, bright red, bloody and still trembling. Those fingers tear off another piece from it and they insist in their offering.

He starts screaming, his voice shrill, thin like a child's. And the one before him embraces his convulsing body and for the first time he hears what the other is saying.

"I'll feed it you... No matter how insatiable your hunger is, I'll feed it to you... This fruit that don't exist..."

He wakes up to the sound of his door breaking and to the sight of orange flames surrounding him, he is still screaming.

-o-

He doesn't remember much, but he is told that it was his Rain and the one in his dreams that saved him from burning himself to death. The state of delirium after the incident lasts so long that all he can do is sleep and avoid the hunger filled dreams.

Then one night he wakes up with a warm weight over him, he opens his eyes and meets that all encompassing green. He startles, he struggles, scared, oh so scared. But those hands embrace him tightly as he says, " We are locked in here, together."

He cries.

"I was feeding on your heart..." He hiccups, remembering the unwanted, disgusting pleasure with shaky, frightened breaths puffing against the expanse of that naked chest. "I am so scared to hurt you." He confesses.

"I am not made of glass." The other answers. "I won't break that easily, try me, touch me to see it for yourself."

And the one in his dreams climbs over him, guides his hands, guides his body into his own all the while smiling down at him even as he cries, afraid, clumsy, so very fragile.

"Like this." He hears a murmur down his ear and he is powerless to open his eyes. "I am real, I am here." The other says and rocks up to the broken, uncoordinated jerks of his hips, those eyes also filled with tears.

"Tsuna, _Tsuna_... Open your eyes, Tsuna. Open them and look at me." He pleads between gasps and sobs and he has no choice but to obey. Brown eyes hesitantly appear under wet lids and they are struck with awe upon the sight that greets them.

"Hayato..." He whispers, "Hayato, Hayato, _Hayato_..." And he is full to the brim, sated to the last ounce, laughing and holding onto the other, ascending and ascending, confessing to him his heart's hidden most truth and falling into those arms back again.

This time, to be caught.

A tear drop falls down at his own face from those green eyes when his confession is answered in equal ardor and at that moment Tsuna realizes that he has already had all the emeralds, aquamarines, jades and peridots that all the world can offer to him.

"I'll mend you." Hayato whispers as they settle down. "I'll mend you and we'll change for the better." He promises. And Tsuna believes into the words of his new found religion. He burrows as close as human flesh and bones permit and he falls asleep to see bright, peaceful dreams where no cats prowl in hidden corners, no amber eyes following him with undisguised menace.

Only that beloved face beside him and the fresh smell of dewy grass under their feet as he walks scattering back the gem stones he has collected within his now cooled fists.

-oo-

_Gosh, this reads like a poem. Ugh ^^'_

Please tell me what you think about it.


End file.
